


Destined Between the Lines

by DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Florist Neville Longbottom, Florists, Fluff and Humor, Hermione's Haven Roll-a-Prompt Writing Challenge 2019, Humor, Light Romance, Magical Tattoos, Muggle Life, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-War, Roll-A-Prompt, Sirens, Tattoos, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 19:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20935553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns/pseuds/DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns
Summary: Mythical interferences in Hermione's life were not what she asked for, and she was sure he didn't ask for this kind of thing either. At least she could say she touched his abs.





	Destined Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> To note: Muggle!Neville & Muggle!Luna. Hermione and Ginny went to Hogwarts as canon with a few changes.

Settled with the Fawkes Isles were powerful, life-changing creatures believed to be myths, not even the citizens in the wizarding community believed that they remain in existence. It was better for all mankind to consider them long gone and continue their legacies through folktales and stories to their children. No one would be able to harvest their powers. No one would be able to use or abuse their authorities. 

It was best they remain in the shadows created during the day and the darkness obscured through the night. They lived peacefully with their free will as long as they maintained the boundaries set by their abilities. For over a thousand years, that was how their way. 

Until someone decided it was best to make a teenie weenie change. 

On one of the islands of Fawkes Isles, there was a large, vibrant waterfall. The luscious blue-green plants wove around the cliff that descended clear, beautiful waters. The water hit against large beds of rocks below, settling into a deep pool. 

The mist that formed from the water hitting against the rocks is where the sirens reside after a hunt. It is also where one, in particular, is making a bold action. 

Her bare torso laid flat on the boulder, the tan of her fair skin being concealed by the mist while her pale grey tail waded in the pool waters behind her. Her slick, jet black hair clung to her neck as she stared into the water before her. She used her finger to draw lines in the water in front of her, and they glimmered in the light when they grew along the waves and touched one another. 

She licked her bottom lip quickly before parting her lips and starting off the melody of her song. There were no words in this song like they typically had, and she could already feel the different effects of her mystical tune. It was also present in the way her lines in the water were twirling around one another to become one. A grin slowly grew on her face until there was an interruption. 

“Fae!” an angry feminine voice shouted. “What are you doing?” Seila hissed with her claws digging into the stone underneath her body as her platinum blonde tresses rose with her heavy, infuriated breaths. 

Fae lazily glanced at her sister with her brow arched challengingly. “What good is having this ability if I don’t put it to use, Seila?” Fae questioned tilting her head slightly. “I suppose I should mention that boredom was a factor in my decision as well.” 

Seila shook her head in response. “You cannot just tamper with our binding magic, Fae! It is to lure men to their deaths, not entice petty emotions.” 

The dark-haired siren scoffed and shooed Seila away. “You can catch dinner all you like,” she said. “I’m going to appease my soulless life at least once before I give way to more centuries of our daily routine.” 

Her eyes were trained on the expression Seila gave her. She regarded the irritation and caution coloring her features, the tension in her jaw, but Fae didn’t want to stop. It was one simple, measly song. The connection made between the chosen was merely an act of fate in her eyes. Didn’t that keep within the ‘hidden’ guidelines? 

Besides, it was too late. When she saw the lines had taken other forms, the siren knew her song and binding magic had done exactly what she had intended. While Fae felt smug about her success, the two unwitting people bound by her song would feel entirely different once they discovered the tattoos etched somewhere on their skin.

* * *

It was early morning when her eyes opened to the sunlight beaming its rays through rose-colored curtains hanging over the windows. She covered her mouth with one hand as the yawn came, reaching for the ceiling with her other hand as a stretch. 

She scratched through her curly–also knotted–locks and swung her legs over the side of her bed. Her ears didn’t catch any commotion happening beyond the doors, and she had to wonder–and pray–if her roommate/best friend was off to Quidditch practice early. 

As soon as the thought formed, the door opened with a loud bang, and she jumped naturally with a squeak. She was so close. 

“Buggering hell, you look like death. Oh, right. Rise and shine, Hermione!” exclaimed the redhead woman leaning on the doorframe with her hand perched high against it. “Did you think I’d leave without making sure you were awake  _ promptly  _ like you asked?” 

Hermione looked over her shoulder with a glare. There was a side of her that was grateful that her friend honored her request; though, there was another side of Hermione that wanted to  _ Oppugno  _ a flock of pigeons towards the woman in the doorway. Promptly or not, Hermione did not fancy being frightened out of her sleepy state. 

“Thank you for your consideration, Ginny,” Hermione grumbled. “Or lack thereof.” 

Ginny scoffed and pushed herself off the doorframe to walk towards Hermione. It was then that Hermione noticed that Ginny was dressed in worn, red and white Quidditch training garbs with a plait draped over her shoulder. At least Hermione had been partially right in her morning assumptions before said redhead startled her. 

“I’m saving you the trouble of preparing caffeine,” Ginny reasoned with her hand moving along with her words. 

“You should save yourself from meeting your feathery fate from my wand.” 

“Which is why I’m leaving now. I’ll call you as soon as we’re off the field for lunch. Make sure you shower, luv.” 

Ginny used her athletic skills to hug Hermione quickly and blow her a kiss goodbye before Hermione could follow through with her threat. The brunette sighed and shook her head at the spot that her friend was previously standing. She made a mental note to seek vengeance on the redhead later; she didn’t want to ruin their lunchtime. 

Sighing again, Hermione stood up from her bed and headed for the bathroom to shower and physically prepare herself for the day. She had a list of errands she had to accomplish before arriving at her office. Upon graduating from Hogwarts, she became the liaison and Head Director in the Department of Muggle Communications between the UK and the States. The office was located in Muggle London, which benefitted Ginny as well as she was a Chaser for the English National Quidditch team. For convenience and their close friendship, the ladies bought a flat to share. A year later and things were just as smooth as they were in the beginning. 

She would see her other close companions Harry and Ron whenever she could if she didn’t stop by their offices in the Auror Department. Every time she did, she would leave them a small potted plant to brighten up the dingy spaces as well as provide them with a source of fresh air they don’t obtain during their cases. Hermione tried telling herself that it was because it was the least she could do after all they’d been through together. 

Deep down, she knew she would go mad if she didn’t help or provide them with something in their daily lives. Granted, they had significant others to play that role, but Hermione knew that was her permanent stamp upon their dubbed name as the Golden Trio. 

She also knew that it was her excuse to talk to the man that owned the flower shop she bought the potted plants from. 

His name was Neville Longbottom, and Hermione believed that he was the sweetest man to grace the earth. He was kind, very knowledgeable in botany–she thought he could have made an excellent Herbologist or Herbology professor in another life–and he didn’t possess a disrespectful bone in his body like the arseholes Hermione dealt with on a daily basis. 

A few months ago, she confided in Ginny about her admiration of the florist shop owner. Naturally, the redhead had a field day for two weeks straight, teasing her about bouquets and need to decorate the flat with live flowers. The only thing that made her stop was the fact that Ginny wanted no part in caring for the greenery, with or without magic. 

There might have also been a moment or two where the redhead was jinxed and turned green anytime she teased Hermione. Each time Hermione would remark about her uncanny resemblance to a comic character. Needless to say, Ginny’s pride won against her provoking nature. 

Once she was in the bathroom, the witch turned the handle for the hot water in the shower. Hermione stood there and waited until the room began to fog up and the condensation covered the mirror along with the reflection of her body; a self-conscious habit she just couldn’t shake. 

The scars on her body from the war couldn’t be spelled away by a simple charm. Some of them had magic laced within them, preventing them from fading away. As if the everlasting memory of the past wasn’t enough. She couldn’t show them much less explain them to the man she fancied. 

_ He was a Muggle for Circe’s sake! _ How could she possibly make him understand without bringing trouble upon them both? She couldn’t, and she knew it was better to keep things at a platonic level with Neville. Yet fighting the flutter in her chest when he smiled shyly at her was harder than dragging Ron from a Muggle buffet. 

The brunette cursed under her breath and blinked, realizing that she was wandering off in her mind about her life again thus wasting precious time and water. She removed her pajamas and undergarments, preparing to officially wash up, only to stop when something caught her eye. 

Through the fog on the mirror, light reflected off Hermione’s side. Despite her body being completely blurred in the mirror, Hermione could see the lit image as clear as day. It was a black vine stretching from her mid-thigh to her shoulder. There were copper tick lines that reminded Hermione of thorns or plant hairs from her former Herbology classes; they moved as if guided by a gentle wind. 

Tentatively, Hermione touched the image on her skin, and the light disappeared, leaving the black and copper ink. The bookworm scoured through her mental library for an answer that made sense, and the only one that came to mind originated from one of those bloody witch magazines Lavender kept in their dormitory–she read through it  _ strictly  _ for research at the time. 

No matter how Hermione had acquired the information, if she were to believe such a thing was true, she was now linked...magically bonded to a man for the rest of her life. 

When did this happen? How could it possibly happen? Who would do something like this? 

It was a rare occurrence Hermione Granger didn’t have the answer to a problem, and this was one of those occurrences. Because of that, she screamed. 

* * *

Neville flipped the Open sign over to face any welcoming customers into the shop. He had a small smile on his face as he tended to each and every plant in the shop. Others might call him odd or mad for it, but Neville enjoyed it. He loved his job. There was something about caring for other beings' lives and watching it flourish which made the florist feel exhilarated. 

He started humming to himself at some point, failing to see the dirty-blonde woman rising up slowly from behind the counter. She offered him a serene smile when he finally turned around, a jolt of surprise coursed through his force. He yelped and nearly dropped his water can in response. 

His heart drummed loudly in his chest, and he placed a hand there as if it would steady it. “Jesus, Luna,” Neville said. “We’re gonna have to talk about your grand entrances to work.” 

Luna shrugged casually, the smile never wavering from her face. “Whenever you’re ready, sir. You’ve told me five other times before.” 

Pink tinged Neville’s cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Right…” 

He’d only just hired Luna the week before after deciding that he could use a hand every once in a while. Though, Neville was beginning to have second thoughts. He’d be put in an early grave if she kept this up. 

“I alphabetized the plants in the greenhouse,” she informed him. “It was the easiest way to mark inventory on these beauties.” 

And good help was so hard to find nowadays. Perhaps he could invest in one of those revival machines; there was no doubt in his mind that he would need it one day. As he started to thank her, Neville had to do a double-take to notice that there were living butterflies roaming in Luna’s hair. Yesterday there was a plethora of bottle tubes holding up her bun, and not once did it tangle up. He could admit it piqued his curiosity once, but he didn’t dare consider what might be lodged in there next. 

“Thank you, Luna,” he said. “And please call me Neville. ‘Sir’ makes me feel old, you know?” He grimaced at the thought. 

Luna offered an amused smile in return. “There’s nothing wrong with aging,” she said. “It helps blossom your magic because you gain experience and strength every year. That’s perfect for building your energy core if you believe what the butterflies tell you.” 

Neville bit the side of his bottom lip and mutely nodded. For whatever reason, Luna was adamant about magic, and Neville had to constantly bite his tongue to refrain from telling Luna magic wasn’t real and her animal conversations weren’t real. 

He tolerated–and sometimes finding himself willing to fall for–her rambles and tales when it came to plant-life and botany, yet everything else sounded like complete rubbish. She would call him out on it and tell him to be honest with her, but Neville would have felt bad for hurting her even in his thoughts. 

As far as chivalry was concerned, Neville was a firm advocate. He could hardly fathom mistreating a woman; they were meant to be respected. Then his thoughts drifted to a certain respectable woman that came to his shop daily and turned him into a bumbling fool. In fact, he was sure she would be arriving right now…

The hand waving him back into reality didn’t belong to the business savvy Ms. Granger. It belonged to Luna, who was staring at him intensely with wide, curious eyes. It scared him just a little and he stepped back instinctively. 

“When did you get a tattoo?” Luna asked him bluntly. “Its luster is  _ brilliant _ , Neville.” 

Her question made his mind shift gears in slow motion. Tattoo? Neville would never…

As soon as he was preparing to follow the direction of Luna’s gaze, the door chime sounded to indicate someone had come into his shop. He swiveled around to find the woman of his thoughts before Luna distracted him. 

She wore a fitted pantsuit, the cream color complimenting her skin. Her hair had a tousled yet classy appeal to it; her makeup accentuated her natural beauty. God, Neville thought she was beautiful. There was something moving on her neck catching his attention, though. Wait.  _ Something moving _ ? 

Their eyes met, and he couldn’t help but smile sheepishly. She had this allure that Neville couldn’t pull away from, and for the past few months of speaking with her and having her come into the shop, Neville had decided that he didn’t want to pull away. 

He was getting ready to ask her about her morning when she covered her mouth and gasped at him. His brows furrowed in confusion, his hand reaching out slightly. 

“Ms Granger?” he said. “Are—” 

“Not you,” Hermione has whispered. “Gods, why did it have to be you?” 

* * *

Hermione tried to convince herself the bonding ink as a prank Ginny was playing on her from the twins’ collection, and it didn’t mean anything else. Saying it like a mantra in the shower pushed her forward to get dressed and act like nothing was wrong. Her eyes lingered on the shifting ink under her blouse, so she tightened the blazer around the upper half of her body. It was aggravating that she couldn’t use a beauty charm to cover it; Muggle makeup seeped right through it! 

Therefore she had no other choice but to keep her blazer closed tightly. The less seen, the less questioned, and the less she had to accept. 

After getting her mind back on track with her errands, Hermione left the flat and began her walk to the florist shop. She had to walk briskly if she wanted to maintain her punctuality, despite the voice in the back of her mind wanting her to slow down because she was going to see Neville. 

Neville was a Muggle; he wouldn’t notice such a thing, yes? Yes. She’d accept that. 

Fighting with herself in her mind caused the walk to the florist shop to be quicker than she anticipated. Hermione squared her shoulders and entered with determination. This tattoo would not define her day. It would not dictate her thoughts and distract her any longer. 

Her eyes met Neville’s, and his bashful smile sent a warmth through her chest. He sported his usual uniform of a plain t-shirt and jeans with faded dirt splotches, an apron tied around his neck and waist. Her eyes went back to the exposed skin above the neckline of his shirt, and Hermione covered her mouth as she gasped. 

The bloody tattoo just laughed in her face; and she was referring to the shiny ink on  _ his  _ chest, not hers. 

“Not you,” she whispered. “Gods, why did it have to be you?” 

Her words sent the wrong message, and the hurt flashed across his face within an instant. Hermione shook her head and hands quickly, heat flushing her cheeks. 

“It’s not what you think,” she explained in a hurry. “This just makes things severely complicated in both my line of work and our lives.” 

Neville still looked hurt, but there was also confusion once again. “What are you talking about, Ms Granger?” 

“It’s Hermione, remember?” she found herself saying automatically before closing her eyes for a second. Merlin, Circe,  _ Headmaster Dumbledore _ . Whoever’s listening, someone or something had some explaining to do. 

She walked towards him carefully, her own hand out as his blonde worker said that she would give them the room. That horrid twinkle in her eye made Hermione think it was the former headmaster’s doing in some fashion. 

When she was but a step apart from the taller man, Hermione twisted his apron and lifted his shirt. Neville jumped back with a nervous chuckle, and he was shaking. 

“Ticklish,” he murmured and looked away. Hermione smiled softly before she confirmed what she feared was drawn on his skin. 

There was a rose vine drawn in golden copper on his skin with black thorns lined on the sides. It was moving like the vine on her body, and it shimmered differently than hers. As soon as she touched it–to test it,  _not _ to touch the hard muscles tempting her–the sheen further brightened. Neville blinked in awe, looking down at her with a harsher blush than her own. 

Before she could speak and explain the impossible, her own tattoo began to shine vibrantly, and small specs of light exploded into a ball around them. 

Hermione gave a sharp intake of breath as the glitter-like substance danced and intertwined between their tattoos. Her eyes gazed from their arms to Neville’s face, watching his fair skin pale quickly. 

There was no time for Hermione to react before Neville’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and the dark-blonde man fainted. 

To refrain from using magic in the non-magical public eye, Hermione tried the Muggle way to resuscitate him. It was a difficult feat because every time Neville came to and saw the shimmers of their tattoos coming together, he would mutter ‘Luna was right’ or ‘revival machine’ and faint all over again. 

In the not-so-eloquent words of her roommate as Hermione attempted to revive the florist for the umpteenth time, buggering hell. 


End file.
